


funtimes in babylon, that’s what i’m counting on.

by wickedbad



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Character Study, Deep thoughts with Arthur Morgan, Gen, Introspection, Not really much of a plot more of a drabble but yeah, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25399141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedbad/pseuds/wickedbad
Summary: “Though, perhaps, in the end, that’s all we really are, anyway: people trying to make homes in places they don’t belong to.”Just a little introspective drabble exploring Arthur’s feelings of self-doubt and such right before things got really bad for everyone.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	funtimes in babylon, that’s what i’m counting on.

The fatigue burned through him like a smoldering fire — flames doused just enough to keep him upright, but still sweltering beneath his skin. His chest ached for fresh air, something sweet and light to fill his lungs; and, he tasted rust, his tongue coated with iron, and he spat until his mouth was dry. He could still hear the crack of gunfire, thundering through the winds like cannon fire. And, it surely could have been a damn war, he thought, for it seemed like the bodies kept piling up until the land was more blood than snow. 

It was the same kind of nonsense he had a habit of getting himself into, and damn, if he wasn’t an expert at that sort of thing. If there was ever the perfect fool to send on an errand, Arthur sure was experienced enough for the sort. And, he figured, after all this time he was either doing something awfully right or incredibly wrong. Or, perhaps, it was all just a bit of dumb luck; even the worst sort of people were owed a bit of it, he thought. Yet, those who were blessed with luck weren’t always so deserving, and he was wise enough to know that of himself, but he wasn’t about to hope to see what would happen when it all dried out. He wasn’t _that_ terrible of a fool, of course. 

Though, it didn’t always feel so fortunate when he was left alive, surrounded by a sea of unnamed faces who had suffered such violent ends. Maybe they deserved it, though more often than not they didn’t. But, it wasn’t like him to hand out judgment, not after all the things he’d seen and, worse, the things he’d done. 

He hadn’t even found what he was looking for on the mountain, whatever it was that he was hoping to find, anyway. Not that it mattered — not that any of it meant a thing in the end; it was just a broken cycle of one man stealing from another until there was nothing left to take but a life in exchange for another. And, perhaps, he could have been shot real bad up there, left bleeding out in the snow on the side of the mountain, waiting for the halcyon haze of the morning to carry him away; the end of it all, when his days were spent, his luck had run out, and he had nothing left to give. Though, he wasn’t quite sure he was eager to meet whatever was waiting for him on the other side; a man who robbed, lied, and killed his whole life wasn’t sitting pretty in terms of the afterlife. Of course, he had never fancied himself a religious man, but he had entertained stranger things worth much less than eternity. But, what a hopeless thought it was, for such a man to think of sinners sat beside saints. Though, perhaps, in the end, that’s all we really are, anyway: people trying to make homes in places they don’t belong to. 

Now, though, wasn’t quite the time for counting blessings or trying to wrap one’s head around what’s fair and what’s not. His ears throbbed like a thousand drummers were coming up over the mountain, singing hymns about salvation. The flurries of winter nipped at his nose, biting there until he was numb; yet, he felt as if he’d been dipped in fire, his skin torched and boiling. And, when the gunfire had ceased, he hadn’t considered if he’d been shot or not until a quarter down the mountain when he felt the tear in his shoulder from where a stranger’s bullet had grazed his shoulder. 

Through the trees and the swirls of snow, he made out the silhouette of a horse — his horse, still hitched to the same post he’d left her at before he scaled the worst of the mountain. And, she greeted him with a bob of the head as she always did, because she would always be there for him despite the nonsense he’d got himself wrapped up in. 

“C’mon, girl,” He croaked out, his tongue heavy, and he couldn’t have choked out any more words if he wanted to. Then, he climbed into the saddle, a bit dizzy, and that faithful horse took care of the rest. They rode down the mountain path until the world opened up into rows of pine trees that stretched across the horizon, where the golden sun sat beneath the wisps of clouds. 

And, they carried on, his body slumped from the weight of his fatigue. The sun had sunk too low, and the world was beginning to drench itself in shadow as the moonlight poured down from above. There, around the corner of a hill, he took in the sight of the town, a few lights glistening in the night sky that beckoned him further. 

_This damn town_ , he thought as the smell of sheep wafted toward him. And, no matter how many times he tried to avoid such a place, he seemed to find himself wandering back to it, again and again. But, this night, civilization was a haven — perhaps the best place he had yet to see in all his years. What a sad way to think, he thought, and if he hadn’t been so tired maybe he would have laughed. Because, life had a habit of being painfully funny sometimes, and all he could really do to stop from going mad was to laugh. 

That night, he slept quite well, no dreams or wandering thoughts that would pull him from the eves of sleep. But, when he woke up in a bed he didn’t know, in a place he didn’t like, it hit pretty hard that things hadn't turned out the way they were supposed to be; maybe if it had gone a bit different, not just on the mountain, but every time before then, too, when he made the same mistakes over-and-over. By now, he would never learn; there wasn’t much of a point to try to be anything other than what he had always been. Perhaps, he had always felt that way: two halves of a whole, living life as if a part of him was missing, adrift someplace he’d never find. He had become a ghost some time ago, lingering in the people and places he met along the way. He was happier there with those people, he knew, even if things didn’t always turn out so happy for them. And, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would always thirst for more after he had taken all that others had. 

A sorry old fool he’d become; when did it get that way, when his thoughts weighed on him heavier than they did before. So it goes, he who has lived so long after facing death is cursed with much time to think. 

There, in a hotel in a small cattle town, he felt quite alone; and, he dreaded knowing that one day that would be all there was left. Loneliness would seep it’s way into every corner of life, taking and taking until there was nothing else to give. Perhaps he would welcome that loneliness, to let it become as much a part of him as anything else. But, for now, there was a camp full of folks that needed him for one thing or another. And, he didn’t mind being needed, called upon to do the tasks and errands no one else wanted to; he felt useful in that way, and that, at least for someone, he could do something good — even if their version of good wasn’t quite the same as everyone else’s. 

So, he rode on, atop his horse with the eastern winds bringing a cool breeze with it. His head was much clearer — or, as much as it could be — and the ache in his body had mostly subsided. And, that selfish part of him wondered if anyone _had_ missed him; if anyone looked around camp and noticed Arthur was nowhere to be found, wondering to themselves what kind of nonsense he was up to, then. Though, he wouldn’t blame them if they hadn’t, as it was a busy time filled with lots of weird feelings and agitations. No one was quite themselves, least of all the people he thought he knew the best. A strange thing, it was, to look upon someone he had known almost his whole life and barely recognize them anymore; as if, they’d been replaced by someone else, or, maybe, they weren’t quite who they said they were all along. 

That ate him the most of all his afflictions; that the people he poured everything into, the ones that he had decided long ago made life worth living, were actually projections of something he wanted to see — something that he had been missing and hoped to find in someone else. And, maybe they knew that, too, and went along with it all the same. But, he knew better than to get lost in that sort of thinking; it wasn’t exactly his strong suit, to be wracking the depths of his brain for answers to questions he didn’t quite know yet. 

“Arthur, good to see you,” Javier’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he was welcomed by the site of camp; he couldn’t remember the ride back, or how long it took him to get there. But, he offered Javier a nod, tipping his hat as he went, and headed into camp where the smell of coffee lingered in the air. 

“Mr. Morgan!” He waited, watching as Miss Grimshaw made her way toward him, her hands flailing about before her. “I’d like to have a word with you in a bit, when you’ve made yourself look a bit more… _presentable_. We need someone to head out and since you’ve got nothin’ better to do than run off, I figured you’d be perfect for the job.”

“Sure thing,” He said, and he chuckled as she rolled her eyes and headed toward the girl’s tents to make some kind of fuss at them, too. 

It was the same as it always was back at camp; bustling with fervor from whatever drama that stirred earlier before. But, he didn’t mind it, because that mostly meant everyone left him alone to bother each other. The quiet moments of camp were his favorite, though they were few and far between; yet it was nice to have some folks around, just existing amongst one another as they always did. 

“Hey,” He heard beside him, and there was Charles sitting by the campfire, a mug of coffee in his hands. “I see Grimshaw is at it early, you’ve only just got here, and she’s already makin’ the rounds.”

“Well, no rest for the wicked,” Arthur laughed, and the fresh air filled his lungs, so sweet like honey. He sat down on the ground, cross-legged before the fire, reveling in its warmth beneath the cool, morning sky. 

Charles eyed him, then, and frowned. “Something got your sleeve.”

“Oh, that’s nothin’,” Arthur shrugged, still tired from the trip down the mountain, and he didn’t feel like talking if he didn’t have to. 

“Mhm,” Charles wasn’t so easy to convince, not like the rest of folk, but he also wasn’t one to pry. Arrhur liked that about him, that he was probably the best of all of them, but that wasn’t saying much, either. And, Charles finished the last of his coffee, then stood up and walked toward Arthur, placing a sturdy hand on his shoulder. “I wondered where you’d been, glad to see you back in one piece.”

He watched Charles walk off until he disappeared behind one of the tents. There he was, alone once more, but it wasn’t so bad this time. He couldn’t help but think of the people he would’ve missed if his life hadn’t turned out the way it did; because, most of the time he couldn’t stand them, but they had a habit of making him feel at home in weird places, too. Maybe it was a bit of luck that he’d stumbled upon people who didn’t care much for where he’d been or what he’d done; maybe he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Broken people coming together to make a home, perhaps it wasn’t so awful a thing, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve been replaying rdr2 trying to get the platinum and something hit me around the beginning of chapter 6 that made me wanna do a little exploration into arthur’s mind. anyway! i know this isn’t very well structured or anything but i hope you enjoyed it regardless. it was great to write about this universe again :D


End file.
